


Undertow

by Bysshe



Series: Divine Meditations [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Basically shameless self-indulgence, Blow Jobs, Definitely inspired by the Man in White from the Rogue One trailer, Edging, Glove Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6725446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bysshe/pseuds/Bysshe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The snow white Grand Admiral, he quickly discovers, has a devilish tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undertow

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to darling [George](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian), who planted this poisonous little idea in my head. Gwyn Theiris is inspired by the still-nameless man in white from the Rogue One trailer, initially hijacked because of this [post](http://kyluxxury.tumblr.com/post/143384460628/h-hux-first-disorder-new-star-wars-ship) suggesting Grand Admiral/Hux. 
> 
> **Update:** Apparently the Man in White from the Rogue One trailer is called _Director Krennic_. But I'm keeping this.

“How disappointing.” Grand Admiral Gwyn Theiris leans back in his chair, gloved fingers laced neatly over his stomach. His posture is perfectly relaxed, deliberately arranged to seem so, but his eyes are so focused that he exudes cold, exudes power. This is a man who wears white knowing that no imperfection can mar him. Hux, still smothering in black, knows that it hides the things that might otherwise stain him. Things that must be purged with fire, burnt black and blacker, before they can become white ash. Heat coils in his chest under the even stare that fixes itself on him, so familiar with the dark that it can distinguish stain from uniform. And he feels stained.  
  
“You are not alone in your disappointment,” Hux says, at last, though already his mouth is drying out. He feels naked.  
  
“More’s the pity.” The Grand Admiral rises from his seat like a falling of white silk, and moves to the window, snatching up a tumbler full of amber brandy from his desk as he does. Hux knows it is Alderaanian, and so knows his superior’s visceral love of triumph. “Join me,” Theiris says. In the merciless sunlight that pours in past the open curtains, he is even brighter, and even colder. Hux does not, and knows he _cannot_ , hesitate to join him. He stands in stark contrast to his superior, a blot that all light things are drawn to. Those eyes are on him again. “Why did you fail?” Theiris asks the question softly, as if to a promising child.  
  
“Bahia was too well-guarded. My men were ill-equip –”  
  
“ _No_.” Theiris raises a bone white hand. “Why did _you_ fail?”  
  
“My negotiations with Senator Amidala. He could have supplied us.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“I thought I could intimidate him.” Even the Grand Admiral’s smiles are white. He takes a slow sip from the crystal glass dangling in his fingers.  
  
“How?”  
  
“ _How?_ ” Hux echoes.  
  
“ _Show me_.”  
  
And Hux slaps the glass of Alderaanian brandy onto the floor, where its contents pool like the lifeblood of that murdered planet. Theiris’ eyes track it, and linger as the brandy stains the carpet.  
  
“Wasteful of you,” he breathes. He is just as nonchalant when Hux’s gloved hand encircles his throat. Their eyes meet. Hux begins to squeeze, an effort that’s rewarded by an involuntary parting of the older man’s lips. It’s easier to look at his mouth than meet those terrible eyes, which see everything, even then. He is suddenly aware of the press of fingertips on the inside of his wrist, soft white leather against his pulse. He is more aware of Theiris’ own heartbeat, steady and somehow expectant. Hux’s grip loosens, but the fingertips pressed to his wrist snake around it, and clamp down. The Grand Admiral’s whisper is soft and icy as snow. “ _No._ Don’t disappoint me.”  
  
The grasp on Hux’s wrist tightens painfully, and he knows he cannot try to pull away. Not from this. The will to violence is swirling in his blood, and dimly he realizes that he hates this man. His free hand digs into Theiris’ hip, and he pushes him hard against the window frame. That wins him a silvery laugh that can only be condescending. He wants to sink his teeth into the pale throat under his hand. He wants to watch the blood spill traitorously down the admiral’s front with every useless beat of that mechanical heart. He thinks of beastly Amidala, and the disgust twists his face. They are nothing alike. Nothing.  
  
“Be careful,” Hux snarls into the older man’s ear. “Be careful what you ask me to do.” His grip is tight enough, now, that Theiris has no hope of answering, but still, refuses to be silenced. Hux isn’t expecting to be pulled any closer, and he leans into the older man, rather than lose his footing. It’s almost a surprise that the Grand Admiral should have so warm a body. He should feel like alabaster, and Hux hates him for his peculiar softness. For a moment, he thinks of choking him to death right there, against the sill, with the sunlight pouring in. A sound, almost a moan, leaves Theiris as Hux’s grip cuts off his air completely. “Disappointed?” Hux asks. And he can see in those crystalline eyes… Nothing. Like light gleaming on the facets of a diamond. It makes him feel sick, and he recoils in spite of himself, or would have, but that the admiral’s white hands hold him fast. Hux’s hand slides down from the man’s throat, flattening against his chest, and he finds himself looking too long on that reddening skin. Mortal, after all.  
  
“You think I don’t see it? You’re a cowardly boy.” Theiris seizes him by the hair, and it seems almost impossible that they should be any closer. “What good is all that ambition, if you cannot simply _take_ what you will?” Hux swallows. It should rankle more to be called coward. His throat is exposed, waiting for a knife to run across it, and he feels only the faint warmth of the admiral’s breath. Then, less faint, his lips. The touch is electric, and Hux shudders. He can feel his control beginning to slip, that small part of him that desires surrender still alive and well, in spite of his efforts to let it die inside him.  
  
“Unbuckle your belt,” Theiris commands, fingers slackening in Hux’s hair. It’s too easy to comply. The belt buckle hits the carpet with a dull thud. Theiris unzips Hux’s jacket, deftly pushing it from his shoulders. It joins the belt on the floor. When Hux makes to strip off his undershirt, next, strong white hands catch his. “ _No_. Let me.” The leather against his skin leaves Hux’s skin prickling, and his breath catches as those deft fingers graze his ribcage.  
  
Even just shirtless, Hux cannot help but feel as if he has been completely laid bare. Theiris looks him over once, pale eyes making constellations of the freckles that stand out against Hux’s milky skin. Hux catches himself holding his breath as the little distance between them shortens again. The admiral’s lips are reverent on his collarbone, disdainful on his chest, his stomach. Then he kneels, glancing up with those eyes, those eyes… And Hux, possessed by an urge he can’t quite name, lets his fingers trace along Theiris’ cheek, then farther back, to clench in his hair.  
  
“Be careful,” the admiral warns, “what you ask me to do.”  
  
“I’m not asking,” Hux growls, and his fingers tighten in that immaculate silver hair. That elicits another condescending laugh from the admiral, who undoes Hux’s trousers, tugs them down. Strips him bare.  
  
The jag of arousal that goes through him is sudden, and terrible, and Theiris knows instantly. He holds Hux with his stare as he takes him into his mouth, and it’s Hux who has to look away. The snow white Grand Admiral, he quickly discovers, has a devilish tongue. Hux sinks his teeth into his lip to hold back a moan, undone little by little, by that methodical, practiced rhythm. It’s almost too easy to rock his hips into it, move with him. As the pace picks up, he clamps one hand over his mouth to keep quiet. Theiris reaches up, drags his gloved fingers down Hux’s chest, and Hux almost loses himself right there. His breath quickens, and betrays him. His whole body betrays him. He’s so hard it’s nearly unbearable, and the feeling of soft white leather wrapped around the base of his cock is delicious. And the sight… One of the most powerful men in the galaxy, yielding to him, letting his mouth be put to use. White as moonlight and slick and filthy as oil.  
  
It’s the satisfied hum in Theiris’ throat that eventually puts an end to it. The sweet, even vibration up and down the length of Hux’s cock wrenches a ragged moan from him, and his grip tightens on the other man’s hair as he rides out his relentless orgasm. It’s a clear, annihilating thing, and for one pristine moment, he’s empty. Hux is breathless as he disentangles his hand from Theiris’ hair, now slightly mussed. The part of him that despises disorder gently smooths that silver hair back into place, and the admiral stands, thumbing over his lip. Hux looks him over, and again finds himself facing that terrible void. Theiris regards him with crystalline indifference, as nonchalant as if they had merely discussed a missed meeting.  
  
Another alabaster smile only makes his expression more unfathomable. Hux is abruptly aware of how exposed he is, but before he can move Theiris has him by the throat, pinned hard against the wall.  
  
“Beautiful boy,” he whispers, carding his fingers through Hux’s hair with his free hand. “You could become something so much greater than this. Don’t disappoint me.” There is still a lingering taste of Alderaanian brandy in the kiss that Theiris presses to Hux’s lips. The sweet ruin of billions, underscored with the bitterness of spent semen. Then it turns sharp, and Hux tastes metal. He sucks in a breath through his nose, not quite a hiss of pain, or even anger. A kiss like this one should taste like blood, and they both know it. For a brief moment, he remembers the slash of red on Kylo Amidala’s lower lip smearing against his. Then Theiris releases him, studying his face with a clinical eye. What he makes of what he sees, however, is hopelessly indeterminable, and Hux searches him.  
  
“I should leave,” Hux says, having found nothing for his scrutiny.  
  
“Yes. I believe you should.” The Grand Admiral does not watch Hux dress himself, but stoops, instead, to pick up the crystal glass from the floor. The stain on the carpet, he leaves where it is.

* * *

  
The door opens, and closes with a hiss, and Theiris is left to his own devices. To the blessed silence. He breaks it himself, with an uneven sigh, as he settles down at his desk, leaning back in his chair. It felt good. To debase himself. To let go a little. Strive as he might, the Order is changing, beginning to lean on new strengths. And some part of him, grown too large, now, to excise, has aged beyond its usefulness. He knows this. Theiris undoes the fastening at his collar, pulls his jacket open, closes his eyes. There’s darkness, then, for a little while. Darkness and the sound of his own, steady heartbeat. It felt good. It felt like _something_. He is drowning in all this white. And he is tired.  
  
With his eyes still closed, he unbuttons his trousers with one hand. He pauses when his glove brushes against his prick. He leaves it on, and wraps his fingers one by one around himself. Methodical. There’s time to linger. No one will disturb him. Not now. He is alone in the darkness beneath his eyelids. Alone with the delectable feeling of soft leather, and the fresh memory of Hux’s fist in his hair. He bites his lip against a moan, which earlier might have disgraced him, and now is for savouring. His hand moves messily, urgently. He thumbs over the head of his cock, smearing precome. For a time, it’s mindless, a mechanical rut to relieve him of the tension he had manufactured. But he’s tangled in recalling the resolve in Hux’s bright eyes. That new, beautiful ambition, held back by inexperience, cowardice… But only just. Only just.  
  
Another moan breaks from him, unbidden, and with his free hand, he holds his throat. It’s a light touch. Not the crushing grip he craves. He holds his breath, to compensate.

   
_Be careful what you ask me to do._

  
And just when he might lose himself, he stops at the brink, agonizing there, glorying in the control. He shudders, sagging in his chair as his heartrate slows, painful arousal ebbing away. Everything behind his eyes is white. Pristine. There is no filth that can leave a lasting stain on him, on the ideals of the resurrected Empire, more glorious than before. Another little shudder ripples through him as he opens his eyes on his empty office. The mark on the carpet. He licks his lips, still tasting blood and brandy, peels off his gloves. This pleasant little interlude is at its end, for now. There are galaxies to move. It doesn’t take much to reorder himself, uniform straightened, a fresh pair of gloves tugged on.  
  
There’s a message waiting on his comm. More fallout from Hux’s failed negotiations. But it feels like a triumph, now. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know what you thought, in the comments below. For more Kylux-related shenanigans, let me point you to my collaborator's [Kylux blog](http://kyluxxury.tumblr.com).


End file.
